The Chill

He watched Bronte from across the room, an unread paperback in his lap. Her back was to him, bathed in the erratic glow of the fairy lights as she arranged small, ornate baubles on the lower branches of the tree. Her movements were too precise, too deliberate, a stark contrast to her usual easy grace. There was a stiffness to her shoulders, a tension he hadn't seen until… well, until a couple of weeks ago. It had started subtly, a missed glance, a sudden quietness, then the evasions about the old house she’d grown up in. He’d asked about a particular window, a bay window she’d mentioned once, and she’d gone still, then changed the subject with a laugh that felt brittle, like frozen glass.

A gust of wind rattled the panes, a mournful sound that seemed to hum in his bones. The scent of pine air freshener, aggressively artificial, did little to cover the faint, lingering smell of something else, something metallic and sharp, that sometimes caught in the back of his throat. He’d told himself it was just the old pipes, the damp of winter, but the thought still snagged. Bronte turned, a small, forced smile on her face. Her eyes, usually so vibrant, seemed a shade duller, shadowed by something he couldn’t quite decipher. "Almost done," she announced, her voice a little higher than usual.

"Need a hand?" he offered, but the words felt clumsy, too loud in the room's sudden silence. He almost expected her to say yes, to pull him into her orbit, to dispel the cold that had settled between them. Instead, she just shook her head, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "No, it’s fine. Aunt Marta will be here soon. I just… want it perfect."

Perfect. The word hung in the air, heavy and loaded. He swallowed, the taste of dry gingerbread still on his tongue. What was perfect, exactly? The tree? Or the illusion they were trying to maintain? He felt a prickle of unease, a cold sensation that had nothing to do with the winter air.

Echoes Behind the Fir

Aunt Marta arrived precisely at seven, as she always did on Christmas Eve, her heavy wool coat still shedding flakes of snow onto the polished oak floor. She embraced Bronte with a brisk, almost perfunctory hug, then turned her keen, grey eyes on Simon. "Simon. You look… well. Still writing your stories, I suppose?" Her voice was a dry rustle, like old leaves. He managed a strained smile. "Trying to, Aunt Marta. It’s a busy time of year."

He’d heard the story a dozen times – how Aunt Marta had practically raised Bronte after her parents… well, after they’d gone. Bronte rarely spoke of them, of the accident. A house fire, years ago, when Bronte was just a child. A quick, brutal thing, or so the official story went. But sometimes, when he looked at Bronte, especially lately, he wondered if the story had more intricate, unburnt corners.

Dinner was a strained affair. The roast chicken, usually a centrepiece of jovial conversation, felt like a silent third party. Marta spoke mostly to Bronte, about distant relatives and village gossip, her gaze occasionally flicking to Simon, weighing, judging. Bronte, for her part, laughed a little too loudly at Marta’s anecdotes, her fork clinking against the china with an unnatural rhythm. Simon picked at his potatoes, the rich, buttery flavour tasteless in his mouth. He felt the weight of unspoken words, of secrets pressed down by years of quiet compliance. He remembered Bronte telling him once, a long time ago, that Marta knew everything, saw everything. The thought made a chill crawl up his spine.

"Bronte, darling," Marta said suddenly, her voice cutting through a moment of forced silence. "Did you ever find that old music box? The one your mother adored? I meant to ask last time I visited the flat."

Bronte paused, a spoonful of gravy hovering near her lips. A fractional hesitation, then a shrug. "Oh, no, Auntie. I think it was lost in the move from the old place. You know, when everything went into storage after…" Her voice trailed off, a familiar mournful cadence. Marta’s eyes, however, did not shift from Bronte’s face. They were unwavering, searching. Simon felt a tightening in his chest. A lie. He’d seen a music box, small and wooden, in Bronte’s childhood things just last week, tucked away in the back of her old wardrobe. A dark, ornate thing, not at all like what he imagined her mother would adore, but a music box nonetheless.

Later, after Marta had departed with her usual crisp goodbyes, the silence in the house felt vast, echoing. Bronte immediately started clearing the table, her movements still too quick, too efficient. Simon watched her, the questions churning in his stomach like a bitter draught. He needed to know. About the music box, about the evasions, about the real story of her parents. His heart hammered against his ribs.

He excused himself to the bathroom, but instead detoured to Bronte’s old wardrobe. He knew it was an invasion, a betrayal, but the need to understand, to pierce the suffocating veil of her secrecy, was overwhelming. He pulled out the stack of childhood books, the old, faded plush toys. And there it was, at the very back, beneath a forgotten winter scarf: the music box. It was heavier than he expected, the wood dark, almost black, with intricate, unsettling carvings that seemed to twist into strange, unfamiliar shapes. Not an item of joy, he thought, not for a child.

He ran his thumb over the cold, polished surface. Then, his fingers brushed something loose underneath. A small, almost invisible catch. He pressed it. A false bottom. Inside, nestled on a scrap of velvet, was a tarnished silver locket and a single, brittle, yellowed newspaper clipping. He unfolded the clipping with trembling fingers. The headline screamed back at him, though softened by age: "Tragic Christmas Blaze Claims Couple." And below, a photograph. A house, charred and skeletal against a winter sky. Not the house Bronte had always described as her childhood home, the one with the bay window. This was older, grander, but undeniably familiar. The same house from the photograph he’d found tucked away in Bronte’s old family album, the one she'd always said was just 'an old family estate'.

His breath hitched. The address listed below the headline was not the same, but eerily close. And the date… it was almost twenty years to the day. Not a year or two after Bronte was born, as she had always implied, but much, much later. He heard her footsteps in the hall, approaching the bedroom. A cold dread seeped into him, chilling him far more than the December night outside. He quickly, clumsily, replaced the clipping and the locket, securing the false bottom just as the door creaked open.

Bronte stood in the doorway, a soft, questioning look on her face. "Simon? Everything alright? I thought I heard…" Her gaze drifted to the open wardrobe, then to his face, a flicker of something he couldn't name passing through her eyes. Guilt? Fear? Recognition? He stood there, the weight of the music box heavy in his hands, his knuckles white. The gingerbread scent suddenly made him feel sick.

He stared at her, the woman he thought he knew, the woman he loved. Her eyes were still dull, not quite meeting his. "Bronte," he began, his voice hoarse, "that music box… Aunt Marta asked about it." He held it up, the dark wood gleaming dully in the low light. Her face, usually so open to him, tightened. A mask slipping into place. "Oh. That old thing. It’s… nothing. Just some old family keepsake. I told her I hadn’t seen it."

"Why?" he asked, the single word a raw whisper. "Why lie about it? And this…" He gestured vaguely to the wardrobe, to the concealed evidence he had just found. Her eyes darted away, fixed on a spot just over his shoulder. "It’s just… complicated. Family stuff. You wouldn’t understand. It was a bad time. I just… didn't want to talk about it."

"Complicated?" He scoffed, a dry, mirthless sound. "Bronte, what is it you’re not telling me? What really happened to your parents?" He stepped towards her, the music box still in his hand, a silent accusation. Her breath hitched, a small, involuntary sound. The air between them felt thick, charged. The festive lights outside the window seemed to mock their strained silence.

Her gaze finally met his, wide and suddenly vulnerable, but also defiant. "Simon, it’s not what you think. Nothing is ever that simple. It was an accident. A terrible accident. It just… everyone always makes such a big deal of it." She took a step back, her hand reaching out, then pulling back. A flash of something cold, something almost predatory, crossed her features before she smoothed it away. "It’s Christmas, Simon. Can’t we just… be happy?"

But the question was a fragile thing, already shattered. He saw the tremor in her hand, the way her eyes darted, searching his face, not for understanding, but for something else entirely. He felt like he was standing on a precipice, the ground beneath him crumbling. He looked at the music box, then back at Bronte, her face a carefully constructed calm. The chill in the hearth had nothing to do with the winter outside. It was inside him, inside the house, inside them, growing colder by the second.

He knew, with a sickening certainty, that he hadn't uncovered a memory. He had uncovered a secret. And Bronte, standing there, her face illuminated by the distant, shifting colours of the Christmas lights, seemed to have transformed into a stranger before his very eyes.